Egyptian Gods
by AlyOh
Summary: When his favorite band finally comes close enough to touch, Bakura can think of no other thing than to, somehow, touch them. Though, due to his solitude and poverty, this dream could end short. He has to see them…needs to. And if he does…what then? – Thiefshipping and Psychoshipping AU mixture.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, there. I have not written anything (much less fanfiction) in a rather long time. I'm rusty. I'm not the best, I'll admit it here, but I do like to think I am decent enough. I hope you enjoy what I'm making, here. I've truly never written anything like it.**

"Look! It's that freak!" A voice called out in a sneer.

"Haha, yeah! Look at how ghostly he is!" Another chimed in, joining the first at the other side of the hallway.

"Guys, stop…" A softer sound slithered through the coarse teasing. "You know he'd really hurt you if he ever heard you mock him this way…"

"As if!" It was the first voice. "That bastard is all talk and rumor. I haven't seen him do shit!"

Yami Bakura—not your average Japanese male student—hell, he was not even Japanese (despite his namesake)—was the "freak" most everyone talked about and preferred to stay alone because of it, as well, as some of the boys and girls who thought "bad" was sexy often attempted to give chase. He got his wishes, too, however, due to his persona and his appearance. Cold both inside and out, he had pale skin to match his strict European roots, and hair of a strangely natural white. He preferred that if anyone called upon him, they use, simply, "Bakura," but, more often than not, it was some other rude variation.

Teenagers were so cruel. (Not that it mattered to him; he could stand his ground.) Some had seen his sadistic prowess, others refused to believe it, and the rest simply feared it. Rumor had it that, once, he killed a kid for incessantly insisting on cracking jokes about his hair. Regardless of whether the rumor held true, Bakura had better things to mull over in his mind.

The pale European definitely seemed to prefer a reclusive lifestyle and icy attitude, but that did not insinuate that he was an empty, lifeless shell. Like every human teenager, he had his fair share of preference and abhorrence. He loved the darkness, he hated his peers. He craved power, he detested his studies. He fancied music, he loathed Poseurs. He especially loathed the people who pretended they knew music, real, true, honest music, when they justly preferred the whiny crap on their radios.

Music was like a drug for Bakura, especially when it came to his favorites. His favorite music, pure, hard rock, his favorite band, Egyptian Gods; almost every thought that consumed him, when he was not focused on avoiding people in general, consisted solely of Egyptian Gods.

"I'm serious…if he hears you…" The soft voice returned.

"What? What will he do?" The first voice interrupted sharply. "He's just another weak loner! All talk, no game, no life!"

Bakura was within hearing range and ignored the conversation fairly well, to an extent.

"Haha, speak of the Devil…" The form of the second voice had glanced up, gesturing to the other two, informing them of the pale Englishman's presence.

Speaking slightly louder, the first voice laughed in a brutally boisterous way, "Look what the cat dragged in! A dirty, white bat!"

The figure of the third, mousey voice made a face filled with pure incredulity at the form of the first voice's boldness. The student backed away, especially at noticing Bakura glance up, smoldering brown gaze alive with hate-filled fire, before disappearing down the hall. Even the second voice seemed shocked by the first's actions, leaving quickly just before the period bell. The mocking continued, "Why bother even show up here anymore? Everyone hates you."

Blinking, scowling, Bakura stepped closer to the manifestation of the mocking voice, "And I hate everyone." His foreign accent dripped with acid.

"You don't scare me."

"That is not my problem…" Bakura had the voice cornered. The school bell had rung moments before, so the two were alone in the hall.

Thin, pale fingers rose slowly, the voice unaware, at first, still talking shaking shit, "Pinned me against the wall? For what? You gonna kiss me to death, or something?"

Bakura was discernibly homosexual. Everyone knew, few seemed to care, others would rather rub it in his face along with everything else "wrong" with him. Teenagers were so cruel. But _he_ was crueler. "You're not my type…" The pallid being balled his spindly fingers into a boney fist and plunged it deep into the throat of his verbal attacker. A subtle, disgusting choking sound emitted from the voice's mangled and swiftly bruising gullet. Pleading silently with its gaze, the voice could do nothing but try and flee, the pain in his throat unbelievably unbearable. Bakura would not allow escape. Rather, he brought his rigid knuckles back into the throat of the voice, following that with a cruel blow to his jaw. Weak whimpers and groans, along with a new flow of glistening crimson, were all that secreted from the voice's mouth. Bakura took hold of the voice and slammed it roughly against the wall behind it, its skull hitting hard and bouncing back unnaturally like an old bobble-head toy. Bakura stepped back, admiring his work with a sadistic smile, like a mad artist. Finally finding the chance to run away, the voice shoved past Bakura, attempting to run. "Oh, I'm not done with you." The white-haired assailant turned, walking after him and easily taking hold of the voice's shirt, toppling him over to the hard linoleum floor. Straddling the voice's waist, Bakura had easy access to its head. Again and again and again. Hit after hit after bloody hit. He landed them easily to the defenseless sod before him. The voice's cries and whimpers faded, even when Bakura felt and heard a sickening _crack_ in the voice's jaw.

At last, Bakura stood from the mangled figure of the voice, his pale hands and clothes splattered with a little of his victim's blood, his brown gaze, mad, but fulfilled, glared down to his mocker in pure hatred and merciless content. Hearing the sound of squeaky footsteps in the hall ahead, the pale boy looked up slowly, still standing over his masterpiece, waiting. It was the second voice. Apparently it noticed the absence of the first and came seeking, worried. It froze in place when it noticed, eyes wide, backing up slowly. "Be wary…" Bakura muttered, standing straight after wiping his bloody hands on his victim's shirt. The first voice was not dead, oh no. It was close, yes, but remained in a perfect stage of suffering to satiate Bakura's sadistic cravings. With that, the inhuman European turned, walking through the hall, out of a side door, and, eventually, through the streets back to his own home. At least it was Friday.

Upon the arrival to his little apartment where he lived alone with nothing but the shadows as his company, which was beyond okay with him, the pale demon of a boy went to bathe, tossing his dirtied clothes aside to launder later. Before washing the rest of the blood off of his skin and out of his hair, he braced himself against the cool shower tiles, bit his lip, and vigorously whacked off, still high from the brutal beating he was able to bequeath. Who needed school? He was intelligent and could make up the work that was required of him. Emerging from his little bathroom, he moved to sit upon his shabby little sofa, staring at the wall opposite his position. For a moment, he had started to think about what would happen when any authoritative figure came across the blood in the hall or even the dilapidated form of the first voice. He was not too worried, though, for he was confident that the victim would never confess that their assailant was Bakura. He was sure that the voice valued his life over his virtues.

After a moment of brief silence, completed with a deliberate lack of conscious thought, Bakura pulled apart his previously closed brown eyes, empty of current emotion. He glanced about from his little couch before letting out a small breath, reaching for a round, black remote, and turning on the modestly sized stereo hooked to the wall across the room. Buttons were pushed, the mechanical sounds of a compact disc beginning its swift rotating pace filling the silent room before being interrupted by a clear, pure, single, elongated electric guitar chord. Followed by several more, the rest of the ensemble of instruments filled the empty space: drums, bass, rhythm guitar chords to harmonize, steadily growing louder, steadily gaining in pace, until _he_ started to sing. The instruments suddenly faded into a dramatic pianissimo as his seductive vocals resounded through the room, slithering through the air like a sultry snake of sound. Eyes closed, yet again, sensual shivers flitted up and down Bakura's spine, danced over his skin, and kissed every nerve throughout his body. Every measure, every note, every sound, every vocal perfection caused this sensation. Every time. This was the power the Egyptian Gods held over mortal souls. The voice demanded worship and it got it. Especially from souls like Bakura's. Egyptian Gods were everything to him. Everything. And, more so than that, Egyptian Gods soothed his soul in ways no other being could. The voice…the guitar…the lyrics… Perfect, to him. Nothing could compare. He would hum along and forget his pain and anger and stress. In this moment, his music surrounded him, flowed threw him, and took with it the lingering memories and feelings from the voices in the hallway earlier that day. Bakura, finally, was at peace; just him and the shadows and Egyptian Gods.

Not much time had passed on before the warm brown eyes of a certain pale foreigner had closed into darkness, his mind at complete rest, an abysmal sleep taking over, and beautiful music lulling him away. Bakura was out like a light, dead asleep on his dingy little sofa.

At some point in the wee hours of the following Saturday—around three or four in the morning—Bakura woke, groggy and a little cranky at having slept so long in one position on his old couch, and slowly rose to his feet, bones cracking throughout his body from the base of his spine all the way to the nape of his neck. Groaning low in his throat and massaging his thin fingers deep into his collar as he lazily maneuvered to his bedroom, collapsing upon his bed, thankful for the plush mattress and bed set. The moment his head hit his pillow, he crashed once more, not even bothering to get cozy under the comforter. His stereo had long since fallen into "sleep" mode, so his music was no longer swimming about the small home. Not that he needed the metal cantos dancing through the air to sleep, he was drowsy enough to take care of the rest of his sleep himself.

Hours later, closer to noon, Bakura stirred once more, for the last time. His weary eyes parted, one at a time, and stayed narrow until his pupils could adjust to the new light filling his small room from through the dusty Venetian blinds opposite his bed. A minute groan emitted growl from the base of his throat like an undesirable, low as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Just another cruelly bright, late Saturday morning greeted the strange soul when he finally woke up.

Standing, finally, the pale recluse sloppily made his bed, lazily throwing the grey comforter into place. He stretched his ether limbs high above his head, the joints in his shoulders and elbows cracking wondrously, as he trudged on towards his small bathroom. The color scheme was not much, not that it proved to be any sort of high priority to Bakura. The chilling porcelain tiles that covered the floor and most of the walls held monochromatic hues of greys and blues with a few white diamond shaped accent decorations, the walls that remained untouched by the tiles were covered in a faded grey wallpaper. Fairly new brushed nickel fixtures dimly reflected light here and there from the sink faucet to the towel rack to the shower head. All of his linens were cheap, simple, white towels and rags. Easy to use, easy to replace, and, best of all, they got the job done. He lived alone. There was no need to "pretty up" the place. So long as everything had its place and purpose, he could care less what color they were or how they complemented the space.

Quick to step atop one of the old white towels on the floor to escape the near unbearably icy floor, Bakura turned the shower up with a higher heat to cold ratio than normal to truly wake up. While waiting upon the water to heat to its highest, the pale young man stared at his reflection long and hard. He must not have slept all too soundly the previous night considering the soft, almost purple shadows under his eyes. Heaving a gentle sigh, he licked his thumb and tried to rub away the discoloration to no avail. Perhaps he just needed to wake his mind and body, warm up a bit, for the circles to completely disappear. Turning away when the mirror fogged, pale fingers pulled aside a translucent shower curtain, relinquishing a minute smile at the inviting steam cloud that escaped into the cool room. The water was definitely hot enough. He stepped in swiftly, arched his back at the sudden rise in temperature, and, finally, after a moment, relaxed, allowing the hot liquid to soak his pale hair and silhouette. He stood beneath the torrential pounding of the hard water for a long while, thinking over everything and nothing all at the same time as his brain jumpstarted into reality.

Finally, he reached for his shampoo bottle, squirting a small dollop of coconut scented suds into his hands, lathered it into his long, thick hair, and proceeded to wash, rinse, and repeat. All the while, allowing his awakened mind flow as it wished. It was not too long before he started humming quietly a familiar melody, singing the words within his mind, smiling dreamily. The song swimming in his head was the very same that lulled him away the night before: the Egyptian Gods song from the radio. Soon enough, he lost himself in a daydream as he continued to lather. He could see himself at one of their concerts, standing at the front of the pit, staring up at _him_ and his band…screaming…singing…dying and being reborn again and again… It was a perfect scenario…a fantastical scenario…something that, most likely, would never come to be. Living alone, what money he could earn went to survival. There was no way he would be able to afford even lawn spots at any of the Egyptian Gods' events! Losing his focus, he began to feel a small pang of disdain.

"Tsss…son of bitch!" he hissed, swearing and rubbing his eyes. He had let shampoo find its way in, stinging the weak flesh of his exposed eye. What a reality check. Removing the soap from his eyes, hair, and body, he brought his Saturday morning marathon of a shower to a close. Returning the hot and cold water knobs back to the "off" positions, Bakura stepped carefully out of the shower, standing on the towels again while using a loose one to dry off his skin and hair. He bent at the waist to shake out his hair before roughly rubbing the towel against the soft, white strands once he had finished drying his body.

Several hours into the day, a little after noon, Bakura had finished a few odd jobs around the neighborhood, bringing in close to five hundred dollars. Immediately following the gaining of the last bit of cash, the pale figure walked to the local store to purchase this next week's (or longer) groceries. There was not much he needed to thrive, just basics: milk, water, bread, meat, vegetables…simple things that could be eaten alone or cooked without much effort. (He was not the best of cooks, to be honest. He knew it, too.) Pushing his buggy along, he gathered his necessities, a few of his favorites, and a scarce remnant of a personal craving or desire. He had enough money this time around to waste on a few not so necessary items.

All the while he moved, he was subconsciously taking in the words from the radio playing through a few speakers here and there. It was mere background noise during the majority of his shopping session, until one of the Egyptian Gods' songs aired. He grinned a small moment at the special glee of hearing that voice even there. It was almost as if the sound followed him…kept him calm and pleasant everywhere, which, to that concept, he was not complaining.

Bakura had just finished filling his basket with the last of his requirements and pleasantries and was headed to check out when the song ended. It was followed up with the current radio station disc jockey droning on about upcoming events in Tokyo. Of those events, charity runs, strange drives that he did not catch the gist of, and concerts were mentioned and most popular. "And, for the first time since the release of their latest album _We Are Ra_, the widely popular band Egyptian Gods will be in Tokyo for several shows, signings, and other events." The pale man paused in his steps away from the cashier counter after having paid for everything and stared, wide eyed, at the speaker hanging overhead. They were going to be so close…? And…and he would never be able to go… The voice continued through the speakers, "Next month is when they return for their Tokyo stop in their world tour! And guess what, listeners? We will have several opportunities for you—yes, _you!_—to win _free_ VIP tickets to all of their events here in Tokyo! Starting in the next hour, all you have to do is be the thirteenth caller and," some cheesy sound effects were played to really play off of the awesomeness of the situation. "BAM! You win! That's right, free tickets to ALL the Egyptian Gods events in Tokyo next month! Save the date and save our number to win."

Having no way to write the number down, Bakura spoke it to himself again and again and again as he hurried to his home to place groceries away, turn on the radio, and wait for his chance. Would luck shine upon him? It had to. The Egyptian Gods were all he lived for, almost. They were everything to him. This was the chance of a lifetime! He had to be able to go. _Had to._

Then the announcement was made on the station to call, and Bakura swiftly dialed the number and waited. And waited. And waited. And there it was.

"Congratulations to caller thirteen! Tell us your name!"


	2. Chapter 2

Bakura became overly joyed at hearing this announcement on the radio. It took a long moment for him to understand that, though, that said announcement entered his mind through the wrong ear. The glee that filled him moments before was washed away completely and replaced with a strong frustration fuelled by pure disdain. Through the ear that his phone was pressed against, an automated voice apologized to him, informing him that he was the thirty-second caller. "Best of luck next time, and keep on listening!"

Clenching his fists tightly, the pale man gruffly launched his telephone across the room and shut off the radio just after discovering another chance would be offered later on in the night and again the following week.

It was not fair. Then again, he just needed to remind himself that this was only the first attempt. There would be several more over the course of the following few weeks. This reminder helped Bakura calm down a bit. He rubbed the back of his neck as he leaned over to retrieve his phone, lucky that he had not busted the communications device or knocked a hole in his wall.

The band Egyptian Gods was coming. That was all he could think about. The fear that he might never get to see them sunk in further as the doubt he felt towards himself increased. He tried to remain positive, though, but any normal person-any great fan-would feel such worry. The vision of the great Egyptian Gods simply fading away from him was taking over his mind.

"No!" he growled to himself. He was thinking and acting like a child! Bakura was much more strong-minded and radical for such behavior! Letting go of a heavy breath, the white-haired music buff collapsed on his sofa and simply stared up at the ceiling, devising a way to guarantee him the tickets for all of the Egyptian Gods events.

Making a small compilation of ideas in his mind, Bakura pictured himself practicing dialing the number to the radio station and imagined all of the different trivia quizzes or lyrics competitions they would likely hold as well. He was more than fairly certain that simply being a lucky dialer would not be all the radio voices would give their precious prizes to. Smirking quite devilishly to himself, Bakura could only feel his heart rat quicken as his level of excitement increased. He had this whole thing under his control. He was absolutely sure of it.

_grrgllrrg..._

The sound of his hungry stomach forced Bakura away from his fantasy land of victory, begging him to stand and go eat something. Eventually, almost reluctantly, the milky figure headed for his quaint little kitchenette. Good thing he went earlier that morning to the grocery store, for the little pantry and refrigerator had begun to look quite barren. Now full with a plethora of different foods, it did not take long for Bakura to search and settle on making a couple small beef steaks for an easy, swift, yet, still, tasty dinner. (Despite the time! He was a man, after all. He would eat when he felt like it.)

The sizzling of the meats on the stove top cast a delectable scent into the air that wafted up into the nostrils of the ravenous young man was waiting impatiently to finish and feast. It was not much longer before Bakura plopped his juicy meats on a thin plate, sat down at his little table with a fork and knife, and fervently tore through the beef. It was delicious and definitely satiated the grumbling in his stomach. During the following few juicy bites, Bakura remembered the next chance for the radio contest for the Egyptian Gods events tickets. He stood, fork between his lips, to turn on the radio, grab his phone, and wait.

The music playing through the speakers often acted as the housemates Bakura never had. Music did not complain, destroy, spend, or, overall, intrude on anything of his; music was his perfect companion, music was his preferred companion.

As the last bite of meat fell deliciously into his stomach, the opening of Bakura's favorite Egyptian Gods song began playing on the radio. His great mood brought on by his full belly was doubled instantly; a gut full of one of his favorite, simple meals followed up by, in his opinion, the greatest song by the greatest band dancing through the room made for an almost perfect evening.

Considering that the song was playing and it was the evening hours of the day, Bakura had a sinking suspicion that following the tune would be the final opportunity of the day to partake and, hopefully, win the chance to practically live with the Egyptian Gods for a whole week.

Just as the last lingering chord of one of the guitars was fading away, the familiar voice of the radio DJ aired, announcing the next competition.

"Give me your ears, Egyptian Gods fans, we've got more tickets and passes just for you!" Some cheeky sound effects were played before he continued explaining how it would work this time around. People would have to call in, be the fortieth call, and answer a unique trivia question about the band. Bakura grinned to himself, phone in hand, at how simple this task sounded.

"Are you ready? Get your fingers moving and have your phones at your ears. This new competition begins..." he waited a short moment, building up some unnecessary suspense. "Now!"

Bakura, trying to form a strategy, decided to wait a few extra seconds before actually calling in. They were looking for the fortieth caller, so he figured he would have a greater chance of getting it if he did not rush into the contest completely.

The phone rang and rang and rang for mere fractions of seconds that felt like long minutes to Bakura as based off of his absolute desire boiling within him multiplied by the quickening pace of his heart. Suddenly, the long, and much too unpleasant, wait ended in the dreadful sound of the phone busy signal.

"No!" Bakura near roared in frustration, pressing the redial button as quickly as he was physically able. The phone was still ringing when the DJ came back on the air, gleefully announcing that their fortieth caller had been reached. And it was _not_ Bakura.

"Tell us your name, lucky number forty!"

"I'm Hizaki!" A chipper and obviously ecstatic young woman, probably in her teens, introduced herself at the DJ's request. A muffled squeal could be heard in the background. Bakura scowled at the speakers, immensely envious.

"Well, Hizaki, don't get too excited just yet."

That was right. She still had to answer the trivia question in order to truly win.

"Alright, Hizaki, you will have ten seconds to answer the following question. Lead singer Marik Ishtar-known better for his on stage persona, Dark Marik-has a special microphone that he uses dramatically during all of his shows. What does he refer to this microphone as?"

The DJ put on a quiet, but not inaudible, countdown clock ticking sound. Some seconds passed by and Hizaki remained silent. Bakura looked at the speakers, an expression of pure shock and confusion stretched across his pale face. He was appalled at how blatantly ignorant this girl was. Everyone who knew anything about the Egyptian Gods knew about Marik's microphone: the Millennium Rod.

The countdown was coming to a close when, suddenly, Hizaki quickly cried out her answer,

"The Millennium Rod!"

She had to have been looking it up. Worthless! Bakura's thoughts were all over the place regarding this situation. He was convinced that she was only continuing this to sell the passes or simply ogle at the beauty that was Marik. (Not that he would not have, as well, but he genuinely felt that he held him in higher respects than this...this...worthless broad!)

"Congratulations, Hizaki! You are going to meet Egyptian Gods! And to the rest of you listening, don't lose hope! We are still giving away two more sets of these all inclusive badges. Until next time!"

Music continued to play, but was cut off shortly after when Bakura shut down the radio system completely. He was beginning to lose hope. Only two more chances? He imagined that there would be so many more opportunities than that. Of course that would be much too expensive for the station. He needed this to work for him. He _had_ to have those tickets. _Had too._

Letting out his frustration in a heavy sigh and heavy punch to the wall that knocked a mirror loose from its nail and shattered it on the hard floor, Bakura decided it was probably best to simply clean up and sleep. He would just have to wait for the other chances to air or be hinted at later on. Shaking his head and gently rubbing his temples, he moved his thin dinner dish to the sink and left it to be cleaned at another time as he continued on his way to collapse on his bed, waiting for the shadows of sleep to take him away.

He fell in the darkness of abysmal slumber within the hour, dreaming of things he could not have or touch or taste or...

"Bakura..." His name was being called by a quiet voice, a familiar voice. That voice. _His_ voice. Bakura turned his gaze towards it, warm brown eyes taking in the forming shapes of the dream, ears finally capturing the extra sound.

"Bakura..." His name rolled off of that deliciously wild tongue in the most seductive manner.

Finally, the location of the wound man with the white hair came into clear focus at full force. He was suddenly surrounded by hundreds of people in the pit of a concert where tens of thousands other patrons screamed and sang and cheered from the stadium and lawn outside. Familiar drum rhythms and guitar patterns sill him. He knew exactly where he was and almost could not believe it.

"Bakura..." That voice. That beautiful voice.

Bakura was facing the stage, pleased beyond belief at his close proximity to the elevated boards. He was close enough to touch the stage. Everything was so loud and desirable. He averted his gaze upward where he was greeted by warm, sun-kissed fingers.

Marik was standing above him, Millennium Rod at his lips as he spoke Bakura's name again. His mad, enticing lavender gaze beckoning Bakura to grab ahold.

Happy to oblige, the fan took the inviting hand and climbed up on stage as the tan Egyptian leader of the Egyptian Gods band hoisted him and started to sing. Bakura practically lost himself in the moment as he started to move with the band. A brilliant grin was spread across the pal man's face, eyes focused on the light violet gaze boring into his very soul.

Marik was singing to _him_. He was staring straight at him, singing straight at him, his voice tearing through him the same way his eyes did. Bakura's excitement turned to seduction, his brown gaze burning with a hot fire that he had been saving specifically for this specific Egyptian wonder.

This sudden change in his stage companion seemed to please Marik. He gave a glorious laugh and continued his song. The blonde vocalist moved his hips in quite a suggestive manner, gyrating and stalking closer to Bakura on stage, his body curling into a sexy, predator like position.

Marik was dressed only in some tight, black leather pants, matching boots, and glistening golden ancient Egyptian jewelry on his arms, forearms, throat, and chest. He definitely looked like a god. His gorgeous, shapely, tan body glimmered under the brilliant lights with a thin film of swear. He was amazing. Even the large tattoo stretching over the span of his back danced alluringly as he moved back and forth, gradually moving towards Bakura, his frenetic eyes burning with an arousing passion as he continued to sing.

Then, as he were mere inches from Bakura, the audience screaming their approval of the sexy situation, all wanting to see what would happen next, Marik concluded his song with one of the Egyptian Gods most famous lyrics,

"I want to lay you down and tear you all apart." Marik winked and closed the minute gap between their bodies to kiss his washed out stage companion.

Suddenly, the setting changed. Bakura glanced about and recognized that he was in a hotel room. It was fancy, too, with brilliant reds and creams and soft fabrics; it was absolutely luxurious. As he glanced up, he merely gave a smirk, his brown eyes narrowing with bewitching intent. Marik was hovering above Bakura, naked. Then he figured everything out. Bakura, too, was naked, lying in the most comfortable bed he had ever touched with the most beautiful and desirable man waiting above him.

No words were exchanged, simply hungry, animalistic looks and groans as kissing, licking, biting, and groping proceeded to fill their time. There was a great contrast between their hot skins: white hands on tan chests, dark hands on pale throats. The brilliant spikes in the hair of the singer seemed to defy gravity even as Bakura touched and tugged.

Foreplay aside, Marik readied himself over Bakura, grinning darkly down to him. There, still, were no sounds and, just as Marik forced his way into Bakura, the pale man jolted awake in his old bed in his little apartment back in reality.

The chagrin that boiled within him was great. He cursed his min for conjuring such fantastical images and the accompanying raging boner that likely woke him to begin with. The worst part of that brilliant dream was not that it did not conclude, but that it was already beginning to fade away. Turning to lie on his back, Bakura closed his eyes, did everything in his power to draw back that image in order to continue his fantasy, and reached down into his pants, gripping himself, imagining Marik and his body and muscles and perfection all over again. He pictured the actions that he could not dream and ended after a beautiful while with one of the most dramatic finishes he had ever achieved by himself. That only made him imagine how sex with the Egyptian god, himself, would be like. Definitely the greatest fuck he would ever experience.

He released the hot breath that he had been holding during the end of his orgasmic process. Bakura used his clean hand to wipe the sweat from his brow that had accumulated due to the sexy concoction of his dream and masturbation. Standing, he kicked out of his pants as he entered his bathroom to bathe, ridding himself the best he could of any extra thoughts towards the Egyptian Gods and Marik.

The days went on with hardly a hint at the next radio competition for the passes. Two more opportunities alone and there was still almost a month to wait before the Gods were even in Japan.

School went on a normal schedule for Bakura, as well, thought the days went by a little faster considering that the intimidating young man had so much he was looking forward to.

Wednesday came around with, still, no hints or mentions of the radio contests. The DJs brought up the fact that the famous rock band was going to be stopping by and spending several days of their tour in Tokyo during the following couple of weeks at the end of the current month. Just the thought of being so close to the band-to Marik!-made him sick with ecstasy.

Bakura's pleasant mood and small external smirk really put most of the other present students on edge. It was a strange new look on his face. One of delight mixed with hard, edgy determination. He had already decided within himself that he would do whatever it took for him to get those tickets. _Whatever it took_.

The final hour of the school day came, and Bakura was one of the final students few students to leave. Something shiny in the near empty hall caught his attention. Upon further investigation, he felt a heavy wave of luck wash over him. Picking up the glimmering object, he turned it in between his pale fingers, scrutinizing it carefully. Held there within his tender grasp was a small, collectible key chain. Hanging from the metal ring was a miniature replica of Marik Ishtar's Millennium rod microphone. Someone was going to miss this dearly. Then again, why should he care? He bore the hot blood of a thief.

Pocketing the treasure, Bakura hurried home to turn on the radio-a ritual he performed every evening after classes-and wait. Finding the Millennium Rod key chain had to be a sign of luck. It was too coincidental with his situation and desire! Tossing his bag aside, the young man swiftly began pushing the little buttons on the stereo that came with his furnished little apartment, adjusting the volume and finding the right channel.

Not five minutes later, following one of Egyptian Gods' many great singles, the third opportunity for the insanely desirable and coveted all access passes was announced to begin in the next hour. Bakura was on time! He had yet another chance. In fact, he was certain that the light of luck and fate was shining bright down upon him thanks.

With the radio still on, loudly dispersing the sounds of DJs, commercials, and the glorified whines of beautiful guitars, Bakura searched through his cabinets for something quick and easy to prepare for dinner. Digging through his little pantry and near empty refrigerator, he finally pulled out some bread and left over meats to put together a simple sandwich to satisfy his late afternoon hunger, simply awaiting the arrival of the following hour.

Finally, it came.

"Are you ready? Can you believe we only have one more set of badges after tonight? Ah!" A few rather pointless sound effects followed the overzealous cry from the current voice behind the radio. "All right, this time we're looking for the one hundredth caller. You will get a trivia question and, if you answer correctly, you will win! Ready? Get on it!"

Waiting a few extra seconds, Bakura went to grab his phone. Unfortunately, he could not find it! A strange fear bulged in his throat as he swiftly hunted for the device. The time went by too slow, in his mind, he was about to miss his opportunity, he felt, when he finally grabbed the device, hit redial (since he had not made any other calls since his last call in to the station), and waited.

It rang...and rang...and rang... Then, an answer!

"Hello! Thanks for playing! I'm sorry to inform you that you are caller number ninety-nine. Please try again and keep on listening!"

Those words were difficult to swallow. He knew he had no chance. Before he could even hang up the phone, the man on the radio ended the competition, the new winner being announced. Bakura gripped his phone hard in his slender, bony fingers, anger and frustration of a whole new intensity molten in his belly.

"Congratulations caller number one hundred! Tell the area your name!"

"Taro." There was a familiar sneer in this voice. Bakura blinked, looking down, brow furrowed in though, trying to recall the voice. Likely, it was just one of those sounds that one thinks they know, but, really, they do not. The radio host continued with the winner,

"Alright, Taro, time for your question! Are you ready?"

"Hell, yeah, I'm ready!"

"We all know Marik, but what are the names of the rest of the members in the band Egyptian Gods?" The sound of the gentle countdown played while the DJ, Bakura, and the rest of whoever was listening at the moment waited for Taro's answer.

Bakura looked to the speakers once more, feeling the anger at the lack of fairness in such an easy question rising in his head. It was so simple! What the fuck was this? Definitely _not_ proper, "unique" trivia questions!

"Is this a trick question?" The familiar voice of the winner inquired. "They're all named Steve, or some variation of the name, for some reason none of them will explain!"

"You are absolutely correct! Congratulations!" The DJ applauded the winner over some trumpet sounds and audial confetti.

"Yes! I'm going to see the Gods! And there is nothing anyone can do about it!"

The arrogant glee in the winner's voice suddenly registered in Bakura's mind. This Taro was _the voice_. From weeks before. The voice that Bakura nearly killed.


End file.
